


Bust Bill

by pomoru



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Police, Enemies to Lovers, Ex-Friends With Benefits, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, no really it might take them a while
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24287968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomoru/pseuds/pomoru
Summary: Fresh Police Captain Kyungsoo meets distracting, dashing, drink-from-the-milk-carton Detective Sergeant Kim Jongin again at the precinct they left loose ends untied.
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Kim Jongin | Kai
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	Bust Bill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a product of self-indulgence ft. omega police captain kyungsoo, alpha detective squad sergeant jongin and a whole ton of push and pull <3 enjoy!

" _Oh._ " Cheeks flushed hot, his eyes roll back in delight as his hips ardently gyrate upwards to meet the steel grind of the heel of his palm. He blinks hazily, disbelievingly as his jaw drops. "Oh, _fuck._ "

Midnight is already snacking on his floor, droopy eyes observe, as the shadows mirroring his every tremble and every shudder darken and stretch over the walls. It'd hardly felt like a mere 5 minutes since dusk but what does he know, time flies when he's wanking like an overtly eager, hormonal teenager. 

Slick wet noises ribbon in shoals through the heated air, one that an embarrassingly high-pitched moan cuts through following a particular twist, colouring his cheeks darker. He just barely bites back the next embarrassing non-PG noise, eyelashes fluttering punch-drunk style from every fizzling touch. 

A pleasing current runs down, all the way to his toes as his backside dampens. Shit. His toes curl into the sheets as his brain thoroughly melts and sizzles in its own matter.

Hand flying up to his mouth, an incongruous wince slides onto Kyungsoo’s countenance as he bites back a ragged keen. He imagines he currently looks nothing short of vividly B-grade budget pornographic, spread-eagled on his bed with his head thrown back, hand thrown down the front of his flimsy cotton shorts that will never see daylight and, with how eagerly he’s pumping out positively reactive noises, self-respect thrown out the window. Nothing less than amateur-category worthy and nothing he's proud of. 

His cock gives a feeble twitch in his wet palm. Of course it likes that, literal cocky, neglected little shit. Kyungsoo would roll his eyes at how eager he looks if they aren't already rolled back enough as it is for the span of eternity he's had his hand on his dick.

Panting, he wets his lips and gives his cock another firm tug, eyes fluttering shut with a soft appreciative groan as it fills out with a twitch in his fist. A soft curse slips out as a dollop of stringy precum dribbles from the tip and runs down the shaft. 

His head hangs dazedly, rolls onto his shoulder. He draws his lip between his teeth to contain a low grunt when his mind procures an aptly raunchy memory, and a generous gush of slick pumps out of his rear. His body is enthusiastically signalling that it’s ready for a dicking, but fingering himself isn’t filling enough, and at this time three fingers up his ass is just _tedious_ , time-consuming and overall not appealing when he’s only looking for an easy-earned release.

Speaking of time, a half-lidded glance at the digital clock hastens his movements. His ass will have to be put on the waiting list. Fumbling clumsily, he spits hurriedly into his palm and collects the bead haphazardly on the slippery slide back down his cock. 

_That's nice_ , his dick thinks with a happy jerk, and he deflates contently back into his backrest pillow, fist all the while pumping with an exhilaratingly irregular rhythm. 

"Shit." Blinding white-hot pressure is licking at his insides like an untamed fire, and he’s tipping _so_ fast; head drifting into cloud nine, breaths shattering, toes curling so hard into his covers they're bound to cramp post-wank. He digs a blunt nail into the drooling slit, sputters, eyes squeezed shut as his teeth clamps down on his lip. 

  
A groan tumbles out when he registers his sex-addled pheromones has flooded the room and are crowding him against the headboard. It's simultaneously hotly trippy and pillow-against-face smothering — especially when it subsequently blankets him in extra unwelcomed heat. It simulates the teenage flashback of enthusiastic amateur action under hot-as-balls covers...that continues on in blue-balled adulthood.

The end of the flashback signals with another eloquent, " _shit._ "

The warmth at the base of his spine builds rapidly into a firestorm, starts to bleed a searing white behind his eyelids, eyelashes fluttering. A deep rouge hue floods his cheeks dizzyingly fast as his balls draw taut, a parched gasp slipping out the same time his shorts dampen even further. "Shitshitshit _shit..._ " 

Hips stuttering and jaw unhinging, his gaze grows misty, eyebrows netting tight together as his fist works impossibly fast over his dripping cock. Uncharacteristic whimpers spill out frenetically in a frantic cresting tempo of please, fuck, he's so _close_ , so close to tipping over he's _so_ close so close don't stop he's so close _soclosesocloseso_ —

A sudden succession of jarring rings rips him agonizingly from the sweet precipice, makes his heart spring 5 feet into the air as he abruptly releases his _(bless it)_ pitiful dick. His skyrocketing bullshit meter articulates smartly, a well-paced, " _Fuck._ "

What the fuck.

His legs jerk close, and he barely contains a shrivelled noise when it inadvertently wedges his ill-fated dick in between his thighs. He bites back the blue-balls induced sting in his eye, blinking hazily as it sinks in. 

Balls, he feels so winded. And wound up — which is to be expected, blue balls and all. But _sweet marzipan_ , everything around him is _so_ trippy. There are even kaleidoscoping stars pirouetting behind his eyelids while his ears ring like someone has cupped them and struck a golden cymbal right into them. If he were a cartoon, he'd have one of those knocked-out starry halos circling his head; the same ones that surface when a character barrels blindly into an obstacle and lands butt-first 3 feet away. 

He's so punched.

With a grimace, he tucks the flaccid soldier back into cotton armour as he rolls onto his stomach to avoid sullying his sheets, before exasperatedly reaching for his crowing cockblock of a cell phone. 

His thumb whitens from the force he uses to swipe the screen. "...Yes?" Bitter... Accurate. 

Bristling, Kyungsoo rubs his throbbing temple as he broods and simmers in silence while waiting for a response. It's _three._ In the _morning_. Social etiquette is going extinct and Kyungsoo's taking the brunt of it.

" _Jimmy’s_ _Job Center for Beloved Basement-Dwellers. Get off your childhood bed, let's get this bread!”_ Wait. _“We’ve just received your concerned guardians’ email. How may we assist you in getting your shit together today, Mr Do?_ "

His parents won’t...He’s not even...Wait. _Wait_. Kyungsoo balks. Hold up a diddly darn second. That—

No way. That voice. A beat later, still _no way_.

That overweening, cocksure voice. No way. The colour drains from his face when he wrenches the device from his ear and bores incredulous holes into the blinking contact screen. 

He freezes. 

The obnoxiously familiar Boys Scouts grin he hadn't seen earlier now jeers mockingly right up in his skewered, sour face like a sick opened Jack-in-the-box toy. It double cancels out. He double blanches. 

And the air in the room suddenly thins. 

No fuckadoodling fucksplat way. 

A sharp pull of breath follows when a twinge shoots, no, _slices_ through his chest. There’s a flash of unbridled heat in his gut as he contains (read: just barely) the snowballing urge to just somersault out the window and land face-first on the ground floor in one fleshy splat. 

_"Oh! It seems we’ve caught you at a wrong time. Apologies, it completely slipped my mind the gas station requires all hands on deck at this hour."_ Dread pools in his gut the same time the satire sets in. The voice returns, now smug, with the company of a familiar mocking sigh, “ _You’re losing your touch, K. That’s a new record, even for you. What? Did it hit too close to home?”_

He closes his eyes with a ragged exhale. Maybe like this he can pretend in another universe he didn't just subject himself to blue balls just to answer a horribly executed prank call from Kim Jongin. 

_"I_ _t's Jongin,”_ the ass himself sing-songs, and his eyelids fly open with a provoked twitch. Yeah, tough damned luck. His grip tightens around the device from which the whirrs of a pesky insect drones. 

His mind swims in liquid static. "How did you get my number?" It’s been so long, why did he— "Nevermind. Don't bother answering that, it doesn’t make a difference. What do you want?"

_“At least change your number if you’re going to act so defensive, smartass.”_ The pest sneers. _“All it took was one lucky dial and, click. Live and in stereo with the World’s Biggest Asshole."_

And that’s all it takes for Kyungsoo to snap out of his sickening pining reverie. His eyes narrow into slits as he pulls the phone from his ear to scowl at the contact card. Nothing like a piss jab and a balloon for an ego bolstering said piss jab to sober him up like an undeserving slap across the face. 

_"You_ managed to piss that many people off?” He whistles witheringly when the device is pressed back against his ear again. An abrupt, loud chortle makes his ears ring, and he resists the luring temptation to hang up; That’d be an easy victory. “I wouldn’t put it past you, since you obviously royally suck at following instructions."

_"Come on,"_ the prick scoffs, no doubt rolling his eyes like marbles into the back of his skull. Kyungsoo hopes they get stuck back there for good. _"That was so cheap. Even a bowl of alphabet soup could vomit out a dig better than that.”_

“You don’t say. You’re apparently so cheap 7.7 billion people would leap on the opportunity to vomit on you.”

_“Seems like you’re the exception,”_ the obnoxious bastard muses aloud, changes tactics, playing into the fact that he’s still on the line instead _._ Kyungsoo’s nostrils flare in annoyance. The simper in his voice is so aggravatingly _loud_ it can raise the roof. He’s about to snark back when— _“Can’t bear to hang up? Missed my voice? Don’t flatter me.”_

A vein in his neck throbs. Oh, this one takes the fucking cake. He’s so _livid_ he can probably boil a dozen eggs with the steam he didn't blow off and the steam he feels currently shooting out of his ears. What the fuck.

"Listen closely, _numb nuts_ ,” he hisses, “I have a fresh new tray of eggs sitting on my kitchen counter. You have exactly ten seconds to swallow your big balls and explain why you decided ringing me up at 3 in the morning sounded like a splendid idea before I show up to your doorstep to egg your apartment.”

_“Sounds like a smashing Florida man headline. Pity. There’s just one thing I would amend in the write-up…which I_ would _get you to guess, but unfortunately I don’t have all day.”_ Dick. As if he wasn’t the one who spectacularly picked wee hours to call. And of course, _of course_ the said dick’s main concern is, _“Size didn’t only go there.”_

The dick likes big dick jokes. Unsurprisingly. Why wouldn’t he like his own personality? “Clearly. It’s the only reason that would explain why you’re such a big sack of shit.” 

_"The reasons are non-exhaustive,”_ boomerangs back a mirthful hum. _“But if you’re going about it that way, it’s a blessing in disguise size never favoured you, then? Being a portable armrest must suck, but I guess if it beats being a big sack of shit...”_

Fucking prick. “Cut the crap. I’m hanging up in ten.” A deliberative moment of unapologetic silence ensues over at the other end. Miffed, Kyungsoo bemusedly counts, rapid fire, “Ten. Nine, eight—”

_"Heard you earned your first command,"_ the other’s voice resurfaces, unusually soft, and the next integer on his tongue slowly crumbles and dissolves in his throat. _"Back to the 88th again, huh?”_

The world starts to shift beneath his feet. He swallows with difficulty, churning stomach tightening like a screwdriver had fastened it immobile. Shaking his head to clear the forming haze, he quickly snorts out a response. A derisive one, to purposely pooh-pooh Jongin’s intentions and get under his nerves while he’s at it. “Wow. Way to pick a timing.”

_"Congratulations."_

The air in his ribs rises uncomfortably, leaves his chest with a weighty whose. He clears his throat gingerly. “...Thanks.” 

_“Creamed your pants?”_ the ass taunts in his ears, having latched immediately onto his stumble like he had been eagerly hanging onto his every word. No doubt he’s at least sporting an obnoxious eyebrow wiggle behind the screen. _"Y_ _ou know, if you liked that, you would like prize ceremonies even more. I heard they do a lot of those there. You even get a complimentary certificate.”_

At that, Kyungsoo sucks in a shallow breath slowly. Jongin, of course, instantly jumps on his crutch like a monkey. _“Normally I would tell you to try to keep it in your pants, but I wouldn’t encourage you to act on it too much in this case. The certificate is more meant to be a souvenir.”_

His eye twitches. And oh look, Jongin’s shuffled back into his Shit List. Right at the top of it. 

"Hey geek-pants, do something for me.”

_“Fine. Get your voice recorder ready this time.”_

He blows past that. “Help me solve a riddle.”

_"Huh.”_ Kyungsoo can hear the shit-eating grin crawling onto his face from that intrigued tone even from one call away. Give him a break. It’s all the more why he should end this with a well-earned victory. _"Give me a reason for why I should.”_

“It’s from a case,” he starts factually, breezes past Jongin’s bait to fish compliments out of him. “My perp has a penchant for leaving cryptic riddles behind, obviously has an obsessive need to be recognised for the brilliant ideas in his head. Kind of like you, actually.” A tongue click. “What better way to nab a sicko?”

_“Last part aside, sounds fair. Hit me.”_

He bites back a dry _wouldn’t you like that._ “It’s a two-part. His latest one's: 'What animal has a little dick and hangs down?'”

The other end goes silent for a while, before the voice returns, sounding pensive to an astronomical degree. _"A panda… upside-down a bamboo shoot,"_ then skeptically, _"_ This _is the riddle you need help with?"_

"Yes," Kyungsoo intercepts, curt. And really. The loss of brain cells is almost tangible. They're all unimpressed. They're all clapping sarcastically. And they're all chorusing rueful remarks. Like _nice one, Jongin._ Or _how about you try again, Jongin. Maybe take it seriously this time, Jongin._

"And a bat, twatwaffle. A bat hangs down, along with its microscopic penis,” he deadpans, "Now what has a big dick and hangs up?" 

He wrenches the phone away from his ear when he hears Jongin start to overzealously pump out wild guesses in the park like he's standing to win Wheel of Fortune. _Went right after the pocket of cheese into the mousetrap,_ he preens as he looms over the mouthpiece ominously.

“Me.” Give no shit, take no shit. "You’re losing your touch, J. That’s a new record, even for you," he taunts into the speaker. He mentally stores that last choked sound of epiphany, regret and admiration he hears ricocheting over on the other end into his highlight reel of the year before punching his index finger down onto the screen and ending the call. 

Badum-tss. 

When he tosses his phone aside, it's sheer curiosity that makes him hesitantly peer down, and it's ultimately resignation that makes his eyes flick back up to the ceiling with an excruciating sigh. 

Of course his boner has been unquestionably and brutally killed. He'd felt it deflating before he even had to see it for himself. 

Now _he's_ Numb Nuts. 

Kyungsoo casts his ceiling one last look of utter desolation before getting up grudgingly to pace over to his dresser. With a yank, he retrieves a pair of sweatpants from his pants drawer, changes out of his shorts, then brings it out to drop it into the laundry basket before padding back to the bedroom and blasting freshener into the air.

Before he can spring into his bed to bury his face in his pillow and mourn for the worst possible case of blue balls, his phone pings _again_ , twice with the ringer for an incoming message. He groans.

Squinting in the dark, he snatches it up and stabs at the luminescent screen blindly while flumping heavily onto the bed. A twitching eye peeps open to spy the content on his screen. 

The brightness of his screen, coupled with Jongin’s radiant beam and the reverse peace sign he threw up in his contact picture almost blinds him. His glower lets up at the sight of the happy brown fluff flopping over the other arm with its paws in the air, but rebounds full-force at the sight of the first text.

_‘That was cheaper than your sad excuse of a Christmas gift that one time’_

He bites back a curse. Ungrateful bastard harps on it so much, as if gifting him a _Christmas holiday card_ for _Christmas_ is the equivalent of first-degree murder. He should be glad he at least had the decency to bail on his budget-friendly backup plan to DIY a homemade card with a Sharpie marker. _That_ would shatter even a Santa-believing kid’s Christmas. 

His gaze flicks back to the messages.

_‘See you’,_ the second text reads, _'hotshot_.’ 

Kyungsoo doesn't reply, doesn't bother. His eyes bore into the screen, until it eventually locks from inactivity. Jongin's message is left on read when moonlight bleeds into the room and his eyes flutter shut. Nothing registers in his mind other than that the lack of response is bound to brush Jongin off like sandpaper, and friction burn is the least he hopes the bastard gets. 

There’s just one problem. His eyelids fly open. 

The mental image of that damned near shimmering smile burns behind his eyes, naggingly. Grumbling silently, he digs the heel of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to snuff it out, feeling the all-too-familiar longing resurface and settle under his chest like a pill lodged weird in his throat, and he wants it out of his system. 

He bets Jongin uses the same picture for his Tinder profile to bait easy, thoughtless swipes, since no one with a heart will possibly instinctively swipe left on a dog. On Jongin, definitely yes; It’s a no-brainer. On the other hand, it’s a crime to not go goo-goo over Monggu. 

Yeah, that’s a real unattractive tactic: Dogfishing as if the toy poodle is the one searching for love. Sleazy, greasy tactic. Equally sleazy, greasy owner.

Besides, he didn't get to have a good time so he'd rather have a good night. Tomorrow’s a big day. 

He fights a smile and slides his phone under his pillow.

Tomorrow’s a really big day.

  
  


**: :**

  
  


Sidestepping the offending shafts of sunshine speckling the elevator floor, Kyungsoo slots his hand into the pocket of his trench coat after punching in the buttons, bleary glance flickering up immediately to the cascading storey numbers as the machine ascends. 

A typical muzak music is crooning softly from the speakers overhead as he sips his coffee slowly, not so much to savour the caffeine as much as to serve his fizzling brain a shot of wake-the-fuck-up with its best interests in mind, or at least as much of mind his sleeping mind doesn’t mind minding—

Yeah, he definitely needs the bitter wakey juice in his system.

Kyungsoo wets his lips, and feels the lip balm in his pants pocket sit heavy as a disapproving reminder. He’ll have to apply some when he reaches his office but for now, this will have to suffice. 

Fingers deftly fix his fringe, palm bouncing off his minimally styled hairdo as he straightens his tie. He shrugs to readjust his trench coat squarely onto his shoulders, careful to steady the hand holding his coffee and his peaked cap under his arm. 

Pursing his lips, he gives himself a once-over in the metal elevator doors. Working back at the precinct where every one's brains are connected to their asses and there's no shortage of reactionaries, the stakes are astronomical. So he does a double take, and triples, and multiples, and multiples counting forth before slumping back against the handrails when he’s finally done sizing reflection-Kyungsoo up. He puffs out a content exhale and stuffs his hand back into the warm pockets of his coat.

Thinking about it, it’s funny how he has come a full circle. Seven years ago, he’d been transferred to the 88th police precinct as a full-fledged detective after finally completing his probation as an officer, rocking anxiously on his heels in this exact spot in the elevator all bright-eyed and minty breath. And now seven years later, he’s back to lead the place where it all started, still bright-eyed but at least he doesn’t reek of toothpaste every time he opens his mouth now. Still anxious, but he’s learned to channel that into tapping his feet instead. He didn’t change a lot, but he wonders if the detective squad did.

Thumbing the paper sleeve of the beverage, he watches as the number in the small screen slides to a 4 before the elevator smoothly grinds to a halt.

_Ding!_

The metal jaws unlatch and open, and a cold burst of air greets him. 

Heart in his throat, Kyungsoo schools his face and crosses the threshold of the bullpen, only to pause when a foam bubble drifts towards him, bobbing in greeting before popping on his nose. The calm before the storm. 

He blinks, turns to peruse the presence in the room. Or most importantly, the lack thereof in the center of the bullpen. 

The detective squad.

Baffled, he traces the perimeters with his eyes, scanning the uncharacteristically stoic sea of faces perplexedly. It’s 9 am. Where are they? His puzzled gaze circuits the compound filled with only patrol officers until it finally fixes on a discrepancy.

He squints at a uniformed Taeyong exploding into a grin behind a croissant, meeting the bright glint of recognition in the officer’s eye when the pastry shifts. Taeyong’s eyes widen as he brings a finger to his lips conspiratorially, jumpy and excited. All the confusion he had prior dissipates, in favour of pity. He doesn’t think the poor boy got the memo, if there’s any. 

Which makes him a very apt spy.

Kyungsoo is about to wave him over, but stops still in his tracks when another bubble floats towards him. 

Then another. 

And another. 

When he finally weasels out of the fifth bubble's way, a bullhorn suddenly blares in his ears and the next thing he knows, a cannon of foam bubbles is blasting towards him. 

Fantastic. And so the storm arrives.

Kyungsoo flinches when a shower of confetti pelts down over him a beat later, completely missing the cue and popping all the looming bubbles. 

“Sorry, I popped it immediately after testing the instructions out at the cashier counter,” a throaty voice supplies sheepishly. When he looks up, he sees Sehun towering over him as he brandishes an upturned water jug which he’d used to store the lot of confetti. “Improv.” 

The jug jiggles as Sehun tries awkwardly to mimic jazz hands while still holding on to the jug before resigning. He flashes a playful smile at him finally. “Morning, Cap.”

“M—“

“Hey, can someone do a coffee run?” 

Kyungsoo whips around just as an unsuspecting Chanyeol strolls in, eyes trained on the document in his hands and totally oblivious to the hitching crowd. “There’s a one-for-one at our usual,” he continues, only peeling his eyes casually from the paper when a piece of confetti crinkles under his shoe. “Also, Yixing, the D.A. needs copies of our interrogation transcripts from the Yoo case—Hey, why is there confetti on the floor? What are we celebra...ting…this time…”

“Oh.” The warrant request flies out of his trembling hands as he gapes straight ahead. “So it’s nothing. Just—Just Kyungsoo’s welcome back party. Just Kyungsoo.” His Adam’s apple bobs heavily. “Back in the precinct. Kyungsoo.”

He watches as the blank look evaporates into thin air and Chanyeol’s eyes eventually gloss over with a thunderous sniffle. “When your best friend returns after seven years and you just dropped a very important document just because he’s standing right in front of you and you can’t even pick it up because you’re about to cry from how much you missed him even though it’s a very important document.”

“Oh no,” comes a lone whisper from the squad, that seems to be further away from him than earlier. “He lapsed into second-person shock again.” 

When Kyungsoo tries to source the voice from the crowd, he finds them recoiling. He looks at the furthering crowd, then at the increased distance between the both of them and the squad, question marks springing out from his eyes when he levels a look at the officers. It takes another glance at Junmyeon who’s wrenching his nose and pointing painedly at Chanyeol before it clicks. 

Alpha pheromones. 

But they won’t smell _this_ gut-punching. From the reactions he’d gathered around, the scent seems to register as tangy and acidic. Ordinary alpha pheromones are characteristically pungent, but they won’t cause half the precinct to violently lurch back like a slip of their mouth had offended someone who feels in the dumps—

Oh. 

Sad alpha pheromones. Right. They reek. Aw.

His lips twitch up into a smile. The moment he opens his arms, Chanyeol instantly takes the hug-bait and he finds himself wrapped in an endearingly warm swaddle of beefy arms hardly a second later. With an airy _woah,_ he shifts onto his toes to lift his chin onto Chanyeol’s shoulder, palm alternating between patting and smoothing over his back.

“Welcome—” Chanyeol starts shakily after he lets go, his face scrunching up pitifully. “Welcome back, Kyungsoo.”

Like a cue, the bullpen erupts into rambunctious cheers at that, and Kyungsoo feels very much like he’s thrown into the ending act of a sitcom. A solid curve pulls at the corners of his mouth anyway, his eyes sweeping across the previously missing inhabitants of the precinct-turned-madhouse. 

Junmyeon perks up and throws two thumbs up when he catches his eye, directs his attention upwards, and—Oh. That _thing_ on his head. Kyungsoo can’t fight down the grimace. It’s a horrendous cap that reads ‘Welcome back to Skool’ — school with a _K_ — in Comic Sans typeface. A slight veer to his left finds Minseok sharing the same wince as he slowly reaches over to pluck the cap off an unsuspecting Junmyeon’s head by the peak like it’s trash, and swiftly frisbeeing it half the bullpen away.

In the background, Baekhyun is jiving gaily under an impromptu bubble shower, courtesy of Sehun, who has disposed of his makeshift confetti jug and stoically snatched up the bubble gun amidst the frenzy to fire a steady string of foam into the air. A haphazard aim sends Jongdae sputtering after unceremoniously inhaling a bubble and Yixing lunging forward to manage patting both Jongdae and a positively sobbing Chanyeol simultaneously.

Not to mention the smiley uniformed officers standing by the sidelines. The only smiley officers at 9 in the morning. 

Only at the 88th.

Things are exactly as when he’d left. Almost exactly as when he’d left, to be specific. He doesn’t know if he should count him in, though, considering— _Pop!_

"I retract my ‘good morning’ — is _that_ your breakfast?” a tut-tut sounds, a bubble popping against his cheek steering him to eye-level with the muzzle of the duck-shaped bubble gun — a duck's beak. 

He follows the line of Sehun’s furrowed brows self-consciously back to the sole coffee cup in his hand, which a disapproving bubble is immediately shot at. "Even pigeons have a better diet than you.”

“Pigeons also happen to be nicer to me about my choice of breakfast than you are.”

An eyebrow shoots high, obviously challenged by the banter. “Pity pigeons don’t prepare breakfast for you.” He blinks when something weighty drops into his hands. “Here. A tuna sandwich. To spark some nostalgia.”

Kyungsoo stares holes into the food on his palm, parroting robotically, “A tuna sandwich.”

“This was your first breakfast when you first transferred to the precinct back then and now it’s your first breakfast as new Captain. It’s only fitting,” Sehun concludes with a series of self-satisfied claps, the noises cracking through the air loud and boisterous like the person orchestrating the cacophony.

“A nostalgic tuna sandwich.”

Sehun blows a raspberry. “You don’t remember ‘Big Tuna’?”

“Big Tuna.”

“Big Tuna? When you brought in a tuna footlong for breakfast on day 1, unwrapped that skunk fart, ate it right away and everyone started calling you ‘Big Tuna’ after that because it was all everyone could smell until lunch? Do you remember?”

It’s not like the moniker clung onto him like bubblegum to the underside of a school’s lunch table for an entire year or anything. It’s not like he would be directly referred to as that (with a megaphone, too) while ferrying perps in, across the walkie talkie on stakeouts or anything. It’s not like his dream came true when it finally wore off a whole year later when the squad hopped onto another running gag’s wagon. 

_All_ that, just for Sehun to steer the spotlight of shame back on him years after. “Ha-ha. Do I remember.”

Deadpan, Sehun pulls the bubble gun trigger, watches Kyungsoo immediately spring to fan away the string of foam bubbles bobbing towards his coffee cup. He squints. “Okay, you need to stop doing that.”

Kyungsoo shoots him a glare amidst patting away the soap foam. “ _You_ need to stop bringing that up.”

“I wasn’t the one who crowed on and on from lunch to the next week’s night shifts about how much the tuna stank like coffee!” When he looks up, Sehun is flabbergasted, jaw scraping the floor. “Speaking of which, where even _is_ the mastermind? You'd think he'd be the first one here today to welcome you back. Dude’s obsessed.”

That knocks the wind right out of him. He stills, jerking up to scrutinise Sehun’s face for any tells of mischief, only for his heart to spring into his throat when the only thing he spots is its absence. 

But that man can’t be here, he’s not supposed to be here. It’s impossible he’s still here, after Kyungsoo had left. He should be off sitting in another rank, in another precinct, snug in a high position that would make Kyungsoo eat all the words he’d let fly before. His unprecedented call last night is proof of that, that he’s on a pedestal tall enough to rub it in his face. 

It’s probably just a passing remark. He sneaks a furtive glance at the elevator. No big deal. 

Averting his eyes, Kyungsoo turns back to the officers.

“Good morning, everyone.” He smiles. “Some of you may know me, but for those who don’t, I’m your new Commanding Officer, Captain Do Kyungsoo.” He bows as a round of applause starts. 

When he stands tall again, a bout of movement suddenly sweeps across his periphery. The next slew of alphabets on his tongue just about disintegrates and dissolves in his throat upon a side glance. At some point of time, the applause dies down. He doesn’t notice.

A cursory glimpse rapidly registers someone with prominently hunched yet sinewed shoulders ambling steadily towards him with his head hung, the thin blue pinstripes of his dress shirt stretching taut over particularly familiar contours. Another once-over tacks his focus down on the glinting gold police badge firmly strapped onto a belt. 

Kyungsoo furrows his eyebrows as he follows the way the newcomer’s tie swings with every stride. New meat? But the squad would have mentioned them.

Wait. His tie.

He zones in on the distinct pattern of the tie. Navy with duo-colour twin G motifs. Pale yellow. Red. He can’t see the tags from such a distance, but rememory tells him the tie is made in Italy, of silk-twill fabric. Reminds him he’d thumbed the same logo jacquard contemplatively on the eve of 14th January several years ago. Even requested for the black ritzy ribbon to be knotted looser over the gift box with the receiver’s convenience in mind. The only other person whom he’s completely certain has this… His pulse races as he swallows.

It could be a coincidence. It could be all in his head. For all he knows, maybe it’s not even from the brand he knows a certain someone adores. Or maybe it’s just a replica. Not everything points back to him.

It’s not until he catches sight of a cheek sinking into a dimple behind the tousled brown mop of hair does Kyungsoo start feeling sick to his stomach. Because everything clicks when it shouldn’t, and he chalks everything he’s noticed up to a certain someone when he shouldn’t. He turns to search the suddenly silent bullpen for answers, only to find that no one is scrutinizing the newcomer as much as he is. Everyone is studying _him_. 

His heartstrings snap and his heart promptly plummets. Like his reaction is anticipated more than the newcomer’s abrupt appearance. 

It can’t be.

As a last ditch of confirmation, his gaze veers anxiously back to the side, where the man in question finally peers up. Kyungsoo faintly hears the sound of glass shattering in his head when he meets his frozen gape head-on. 

Except it can. 

He’s sitting in another rank alright. He’s snug in a high position that would make him eat all the words he’d let fly before alright. The only thing he’d forecasted wrong is that he’s sitting in another precinct, because he’s far from doing that. He’s sauntering towards him, chest all puffed, the heels of his Oxfords clacking loud and cacophonous against the floor tiles of the same precinct Kyungsoo’s been assigned to lead. 

_See you, hotshot._ Why the squad trained their attention on him instead. Trucker. It all makes sense now.

By the time his brain finishes rebooting, the face of the devil is already hovering right in front of him, leaning in tauntingly with an obnoxious shit-eating curl sitting heavy on his lips. From this proximity, the offensive aroma of the ass’ undoubtedly exorbitant cologne pervades his nose, and it takes every muscle in his body to control himself from reaching for the Febreeze bottle he sights in his periphery and spritzing it in the dick’s face. 

Before he can even spare the Febreeze bottle a second glance, a white blur all of a sudden swings into his line of vision. Kyungsoo’s jaw tightens when it shifts into focus mid-dangle. 

It’s a card. 

Not a blank card. Unfortunately.

It _would_ be a blank card — if not for the embarrassingly gigantic _I’VE SEEN YOUR WILLY_ filling its entirety. And oh, great. A mushroom head is annexed to the top of the I in _WILLY_ , where two water droplets spurt out. 

Life-changing addition! Now on top of the mortifying text, there’s also a cartoon penis and a miniature cumshot to embellish what would have been a fine, blank, unsullied card.

And as if the card couldn’t get any more suggestive, the maker apparently decided that the card could double up as a landmark because the size of the font is _at least_ a size 72. The cherry on top: the typeface is even outlined in thick boldness. 

Black, stark, markered bold. 

Meaning one could easily pinpoint the horror from miles away in a snowstorm. Meaning the vulgar content is such a spectacle it would rattle anyone’s grandmother on the streets, let alone a whole precinct of esteemed police officers. That is already beginning to buzz within themselves.

Limply, he sucks in a deep breath through gritted teeth, stares stonily past the object at the smug skunk, and fixes a diplomatic smile that’s about as warm as hour old coffee onto his face. 

Oh, his metaphorical pigtails are _pulled_ ; They are so pulled the hair ties have practically snapped. He knows what this is. It’s revenge for his lacklustre Christmas card years ago. Jongin was Get-Bad-Gifts-Gertrude that year, and now he’s finally shedding it. On him. 

But to publicly broadcast that they shared a history? New low score.

“Pleasure to meet you, Captain Doh.” When Kyungsoo eyes him, he’s cocking his head, brow arched provokingly like he’s anticipating his reaction. Eyes gleaming, he slides his empty hand into his pocket and with an ingratiatingly coy smile, continues to dangle the card from high up with the other hand. "I'm Sergeant Kim Jongin. I’m under the recollection that we are extremely well-acquainted.”

“Indeed,” Kyungsoo affirms, tone clipped as he squints upwards at the oscillating card. And turns a scowl toward Jongin. Are they back in kindergarten? 

There's movement in the corner of his eyes. His head jerks downwards just as the other extends an outstretched arm, poised in a handshake. Seemingly sensing his disconcertment, the hand draws back, then returns again with the atrocious card. 

Not that there’s a difference if the hand that meets the card on the other end is still the same ridiculously veiny hand. But the card serves as a third party. Something to intercept direct physical contact... It’s the next best. 

Resigned, he eventually grips the abomination of a card in a pinch. Can't be a chooser now. He lets his arm get jiggled begrudgingly in a ham-handed semblance of a handshake before he disengages, arm swinging rapidly back to its post by his hip.

“Welcome back to the 88th,” Jongin says, and his affable tone sounds like nothing but a jeer in his ears. He inhales exaggeratedly — no doubt another snide act meant to get a rise out of him (possibly to tell him he _smells like a loser_ or something tasteless along the lines) in his practised repertoire of _To Piss on Doh Kyungsoo's Garden_ — and the veneer of easy jauntiness cracks in an instant. 

A look of confusion flashes across his instantly inscrutable countenance as he breathes in again, slower this time. Impenetrable eyes lower the same time his brows do, pinning on Kyungsoo's neck as he wrinkles his nose.

Kyungsoo glances around gingerly, and only then does he notice the thick tendrils of silence vining around the circle of crowd they’ve amassed, perps and officers alike. His eyes land back on Jongin, who is yet still appearing to be attempting to telekinesis his neck. 

Really. 

He would have thought Jongin would be the last person to forget they currently have an audience; The prick practically has an attention-radar implanted in his brain that is coded to send him on one of his ego trips. _And_ that same chip just so happens to be haywiring today. Just his luck.

Uncomfortably, he straightens up and clears his throat, folding his arms over his chest. 

It works. Jongin jolts, blinks rapidly at every spot in the room around him as he breathes slowly. His nose scrunches again before his eyes shift upwards to meet him, rigidly. Rapidly schooling his expression back into an easy lopsided grin, he holds the ugly card up adjacent to his face, suddenly regaining the confidence that’d faltered prior as he waves it in the air with a broad PR smile, like that atrocity is a sponsored Nature Republic product. The audacity.

“Don’t mention it.” 

Kyungsoo’s face pinches together as he glares daggers at the unwavering parabola on the ogre’s ugly, _ugly_ face. 

Don’t mention it? Don’t _mention_ it _._

How _dare_ he. The bastard has brick nerves to tell him _don’t mention it_ , as if he assumes he’s not going to be livid enough to set the card on fire the millisecond they’re out of public scrutiny. 

He's _never_ going to mention it — not because of his non-existent gratitude for the burdensome gift — but because of the bastard's absolute _tackiness_ of a taste for cards. The only way the trashy card will ever be able to see daylight is when someone clears their trash. It deserves to be hurled down a garbage chute, like its owner, the _rat._

In the midst of his simmering, he suddenly feels thin cardstock being slid slyly into the narrow gap between his hands and the cup’s sleeve. 

Immediately, the material crackles loudly from how clinched his hold on the cup immediately becomes. If they don’t currently have a front row audience, he would have walloped the rat with his own crass card. But alas, all he can do is suck his lips back into a tightly pursed smile. 

“Thank you _,_ Sergeant Kim.” 

Kyungsoo eyes the chestnut tufts curtaining the dick’s forehead pettily. It’s normal — admittedly, perfectly normal even — but he just feels like raising eyebrows. And hell at the same time. “Neat haircut. Did you butcher it yourself?” 

Jongin makes a noise of disapproval, hardly deterred. “Once upon a time I recall you liked it down just like this.”

The temperature in the room promptly lowers the same time Kyungsoo’s eyes dim in warning, his hair standing on ends as if a freezing gale ferrying particles of the blasted airhead’s subtle brags is pummeling into his frame. 

“You know what I like down the most?” A finger flies up to jab at the stiff chest in front of him. “You.” He smiles, one that lasts as long as a camera flash. “To earth.”

“Just how much dust did your comeback bank collect?” Jongin laughs in disbelief when Kyungsoo draws back like a mimosa plant with a grimace. His dig just barely races another wheeze enough to escape, “I’ve gotten worse burns from a kid that’s holding a magnifying glass.”

“Can’t imagine that’d beat the time you lathered your mouth with nail polish thinking it was lip balm.”

“And I don’t reckon it could come close to the heartburn you got on day 1 from wolfing down that tuna sub,” the prick bumps back.

The wrapping in Kyungsoo’s hand crinkles with how much his fist is shaking, and he knows he’s bumped out of the ring for sure this time when Jongin stares right at it. And his brows jetpack up in surprise. Slowly. Very slowly. 

He scowls. “Do you have an off button?” 

“Seems like you need to let your hair down more than I do, Cap.” Jongin cocks his head to look at him as he shifts backwards into a half-sit on the corner of a table, lazily hooking one foot around a table leg and straightening the other. “If that’s the case, I’ll gladly wear my hair up just for your sake,” he says, grin growing wider as he leans forward to add sotto voce, “Your thunder’s intact.”

Kyungsoo smiles tightly. “Let me know when you want me to dispatch a search party to locate your sense of humour. Good news, though,” he grits out through his teeth, “we’ve already found your vanity.” He doesn’t waste a second before he turns away.

“Thank you all for your warm welcome. It’s good to be back,” he assures, regarding everyone with his eyes. “I look forward to working together with all of you. And Sergeant Kim.” He catches the broad curve on Jongin’s big, big mouth, and levels a blank stare onto him. “A word, please.”

Without waiting for another testing response, he bows in acknowledgment and nods back to the mirroring bows as he strides forward with a weight in his steps, stoically juking around a beaming Jongin to beeline for his new office.

Rounding the huge desk, he disrobes his coat, drapes it over the leather swivel chair and sinks down in it just as the door snaps shut. Setting his briefcase aside, he fiddles with the objects on the desk, deftly aligning them until heeled footfalls halt right in front of him. He doesn’t spare the owner a glance.

“Give me a status update of the precinct.” Frowning at the uncharacteristic silence, he begrudgingly turns curious eyes upwards. He snaps his fingers, steely watching Jongin tear his eyes away from his neck. “What?”

“Why are you using blockers?” 

So the cat has finally been let out of the bag. So earlier he’d been glaring at his scent glands, in particular. Or now, since he’s doing it again. Kyungsoo surveys his troubled countenance with narrowed eyes. Why is it any of his business?

“Why are you wearing something I have the receipt for?” he parries unblinkingly. He doesn’t have to specify for them both to recognise he’s talking about the designer tie.

That does the trick. The sinister shit’s eyes flit upwards to stare dead-straight into his as he chortles, bright and noisy. “Why are you holding something I have the receipt for?”

Snap. 

Rattled, Kyungsoo instantly drops the ugly, affronting card on the surface of the paper shredder for later’s mulling. Now’s mulling is the grim comprehension that he’d played directly into Jongin’s hands. He’d fallen face-flat into his trap.

When he looks up, the infuriating bastard is still eyeing him with a roguishly smug glint in his eyes. His mouth twitches in annoyance but Jongin merely observes him with glee and beats him to a snappy retort, “The other one.”

His face twists. The only other thing he’s holding is—He blanches, drops his head and gawps at the refrigerated tuna sandwich Sehun had handed him earlier. His eyes ping-pong between the now accursed food and the increasingly radiant goblin in front of him. 

_He_ was the one who bought it. _He_ was the one who brought it back up. The one who wouldn’t let it rest, it’s been seven years, mother—He should’ve _known_.

“Have you ever tried saying ‘tuna sub’ backwards?” the ass rubs in wickedly, earning stare daggers when he plants his palms on the otherwise squeaky clean mahogany desk. Judging by the way he’s obnoxiously bending forward, he’s obviously dodging every hostile signal deliberately. Dense fucker. “You should do that every once in a while, Big Tuna.”

Bus. Bus...a. Nut. Kyungsoo rolls his eyes so far back he can almost see his brain. For fuck’s sake. As if _he_ didn’t unceremoniously decide to cockblock him the one time in a long time he tries to. 

“It’s a good thing you get off from a sense of achievement like the rest of us,” Jongin continues, cooing condescendingly. Honestly, at this point, the dick is obviously deriving some sort of cheap thrill from this. From positively chafing his ass. “You can finally put your cabinet of participation trophies to good use.”

“I don’t see why you’re pursuing sick sexual fantasies instead of justice like you should, Kim,” Kyungsoo derides while he moves to the edge of his seat, closes the distance between them. His chest fills at the sight of the other rolling his eyes defeatedly. “You don’t get a badge for that.”

“Don’t make it sound like we’ve always seen eye-to-eye,” Jongin scoffs.

Finally got under his nerves. “Maybe if you finally get your head out your ass we might.”

“And why the sudden suggestion? Are you volunteering to help?” Jongin raises his eyebrows in challenge, catches up on his stumble. It sends him reclining back in his chair with his tongue in cheek and arms folded across his chest. The prick, instead, withdraws his hands and returns to standing upright, to his stupidly perfect posture. “If anything, it can be a rehearsal for when you finally decide to get the stick out yours.”

Kyungsoo’s nails dig into his palm. He swears the prick has encrypted a comeback cyclopedia in himself in the time he was gone; It’s practically impossible to get past him without risking crossfire wounds to his pride. Not that he’d ever voice it aloud. That’s the equivalent of velcroing Jongin’s shoes, helping him up the school bus and sending off on a massive ego trip. 

“No? Then I’ll be taking my leave.”

That snaps him out of it. “Don’t be a smartass. You still owe me a status update before you’re dismissed. I hope something in that tiny head of yours knows better than to forsake your job just to brag about a grand exit,” he hisses, more to Jongin’s receding back. He _would_ punch him, but he doubts the prick can even feel it with how thick his skull is. Kyungsoo simmers as he watches him pivot around on his heel.

_"Relax,_ Mr Uptight. It’s right in front of you,” Jongin states with a sardonic laugh. Sure enough, there’s an indigo hardback file on his desk. Kyungsoo narrows his eyes. It hadn't been there earlier. “You know,” Jongin continues to drawl, and he doesn’t like how suggestive he makes it sound, “you’ll inflate my ego far too much if you keep focusing on me and nothing else like that.”

His nostrils flare in aggravation. “You’re saying that as if you don’t already do an excellent job at that yourself.”

“If that’s the case, why haven’t you passed up a single opportunity to one-up me all this time? I do a splendid job at everything I do.”

Kyungsoo’s brows crease in disbelief. “Who lied to you?”

“You didn’t answer me. Scared of your own answer?” 

Knockout.

Kyungsoo knows how this will turn out. He knows he has to admit defeat, because there’s nothing he can retaliate to negate that. Wetting his mouth, he pops the lock of his briefcase open, and ferrets around for his reading glasses. He knows putting them on and flipping the cover of the file right before the pompous fucker’s eyes is the equivalent of pathetically ordering his troops to retreat. 

Yet, it still somehow manages to taste like acid on his tongue when he has to acknowledge it himself. 

“You’re dismissed,” he mutters sharply as he pretends to pour himself into his work. “Leave the door open when you go.”

Jongin merely snickers as he turns to leave. He doesn’t look up to check, only taking the click of the door against the stopper as the sole indication while he continues to stare holes into the records in his hands.

It’s only when that particular footfall is drowned out by the fizz of the rest of the precinct does Kyungsoo finally yank his glasses away and jab his fingers into the skin of his closed eyelids. His chest heaves. 

He really fucking came a full circle.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i've been on ao3 for a while but this is my first word dump i've published here officially so i hope it's not dusty rusty crusty o: keyboard smash/chat with me in the comments, i'd love to read your thoughts n emotions going through this ;v; <3
> 
> p.s. GOODNESS i am so honoured you're reading my fic but remember most importantly!!! to stay home, stay safe and stay cheery i hope my fic brings all of u joy <3


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